


Tracer's Talon Recruitment

by SlutWriter



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bestiality, Bondage, Cum drinking, Dirty Talk, F/F, F/F/F, Gokkun, Mind Break, Multi, Scat, Sexual Torture, ntr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 16:26:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15953132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlutWriter/pseuds/SlutWriter
Summary: Tracer has been captured by Talon, and her sexually sadistic interrogators, Sombra and Widowmaker, intend to break her mind.





	Tracer's Talon Recruitment

**Author's Note:**

> Big Fucking Disclaimer: This story is not an attempt to add something nuanced and thoughtful to the Overwatch fandom but rather a taboo, extreme stroke fic meant to aid in masturbation, which happens to carry the trappings of the Overwatch universe. It is unbelievably lewd and without redeeming social value. Make sure you understand this and temper your expectations accordingly before reading any further.

“Bollocks!” cried Tracer with defiance, her expressive face curled into a resolute snarl. It was the 72nd hour of Talon interrogation to which she’d been subjected, and yet, deprived of food, freedom, and the barest essentials of sleep and water, she persisted in revealing to her captors  _nothing_ about the inner workings of Overwatch.

Her long-legged arch-nemesis Widowmaker and the mischievous hacker Sombra were responsible for her predicament, and made for an effective and disturbingly sadistic duo. After preparing a trap consisting of sleeping gas and an specially-designed EMP, they’d transported Tracer to a compartmentalized warehouse, installing her in high-tech wrist and ankle manacles attached to the ceiling as if from an unseen marrionettist’s hand. The cables connected to these seemed strong as steel, and Tracer’s birdlike limbs and slender core were not up to the task of dislodging them. Thus, she was suspended in a standing position, slightly hunched over, arms up and to her sides as if crucified. Her legs, noteworthy as ever for their shapely curvature, were splayed in the same manner.

She had given no information, only her name and organization.  _Lena Oxton, Overwatch_.  _Codename: Tracer_. Everyone in Talon knew very well who she was, having been the victim of her anti-terrorism activities, which ranged from disrupting operations (usually while shouting ‘woohoo!’) to ‘re-stealing’ stolen goods and returning them to rightful owners, to disrupting assassinations. Her unique time-manipulation powers and uncanny marksmanship were well-known, but it was her chipper cuteness in the face of peril that helped make Overwatch a global phenomenon and seeded deep jealousy in her enemies, who in truth would have been glad to see both her pistols and her collection of cockney one-liners jammed straight down her throat.

Now, she was at the mercy of two of their number. 

“I won’t give any information that could put my friends at risk!” she went on. Her intent was to draw out the interrogation long enough for her friends to mount a rescue. Winston and the rest, she reasoned, wouldn’t hang her out to dry. “You might as well release me!”

Widowmaker and Sombra looked at each other and spared devious smiles that were near identical. “Oh, silly girl,” teased the taller, purple-skinned assassin. “We have such fun prepared for you. Why would you want to leave?” Her french accent lent a sly beauty to every word she spoke, even the basest threats. The former Amélie Lacroix was no stranger to run-ins with Tracer, having engaged in deadly fights on multiple occasions. With the optic unit perched on her forehead like a tiara, she glowered with sultry, murderous intent, seeming hungry for revenge. “We already know that in your current state of mind, you would not betray them.”

Sombra spoke up then, her hispanic accent playing off of Widowmaker’s french one for a true multi-national feel. It was tougher, less graceful but no less dangerous. “But changing a mind isn’t so hard. It’s just replacing old information with new,” she said, crossing her arms. Her stylized long coat and dyed purple side-shave seemed a bit ostentatious for the grungy warehouse proceedings, but considering her french counterpart was dressed in a latex bodysuit, it was not entirely without precedent.

Though Tracer’s brightly-colored, bum-hugging bodysuit would have fit right in, it had been removed along with her chronal accelerator, leaving her exposed in complete nakedness that, along with the restrictive manacles, lent an ominous BDSM air. Lena knew that stripping a captive was just a further method of psychological warfare, meant to keep her feeling off-balance and vulnerable, and she did her best to ignore the resulting feeling of humiliation and stay strong. Still, there was no denying the lewd quality of her pose, the way they kept her bent at the waist so her famous buttocks poked jauntily outward.  

Widowmaker reached a hand out and caressed Tracer’s breast, tweaking it minutely and drawing a shiver. The woman’s touch was, as ever, ice cold, owing to her lack of body heat. Gooseflesh rose on Tracer’s skin and her nipple hardened when tweaked.

“I think she likes this,” Sombra offered, knowing the accusation would rile her captive. “Maybe she let us catch her on purpose.”

“This is a new low, even for Talon!” Tracer spat, struggling slightly in her bonds. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sombra and Widowmaker laughed again, and then Sombra brought two fingers together with a snap, her stylized gloves adding a metallic ringing to the noise. By some unseen command, two large industrial doors slid open on two sides of the room. The first, to Tracer’s left, permitted entry to a glass cylindrical fluid tank on a mechanized quadrupedal platforms. It marched importantly toward the group. The opposite door revealed something much less technologically advanced - a donkey. The beast sauntered forward lazily, its tail swatting this way and that, shooing away buzzing flies. Tracer’s delicate nose wrinkled a little as an agrarian, livestock stench wafted in the air.

The tank was filled to the brim with goo that was a foul off-white in color. Wide-eyed and confused by this new development, Tracer could not ascertain if the substance was some sort of protein solution, lubricant, or an even nastier substance that it certainly resembled but she couldn’t bring herself to consider. “What is this?” she squawked, struggling. The metal cables connecting her manacles to the ceiling jostled and whipped but did not give way, and the sight of her lithe, graceful body working only seemed to drive Widowmaker and Sombra to even greater heights of inappropriate, leering interest.

Tracer’s voice trailed off. As the goo-tank moved to rest just in front of her position, a transparent rubber hose extended from the base with a pneumatic *whoosh*.  Meanwhile, Widowmaker and Sombra were unabashedly doffing their clothes. Their bodies were every bit as bombastic as their the tight-fitting uniforms hinted at; Widowmaker’s wasp-thin waist gave way to a voluptuous, expansive set of hips from which the forbidden fruit of her buttocks bulged. The way she had turned her body as she bent at the waist and slowly unzipped her bodysuit made it clear that she delighted in giving Tracer an unobstructed view of her charms. The latex piled on the floor around her feet, which were nimble and ballerina-like absent her metallic boots, with high arches and the same cool coloring as the rest of her body. Sombra was shorter than Widowmaker, but no less enticing, in that her body was crisscrossed and dotted with skin-level cybernetic implants that formed a techno-tribal pattern. When she turned to peel the stylish faux-leather pants down her legs, Tracer was given a close-up view of the way the hexagonal nodes of her bodywork met in a criss-crossing roadmap of lines met at the nexus of her spine, just above a thong that rode high on her hips and dove deep between the round, meaty globes of her ass.

Tracer gulped. A lesbian who nonetheless was the object of worship by horny teenage boys the world over, she couldn’t deny that the two bodies in front of her carried an overwhelming, dark sexuality that would have been fetishistically enticing under normal circumstances. Looking at those two thick asses, one bare and blue, one thong-clad and brown, stirred an undeniable tingling in her naked quim. And what of the animal? Being restrained, naked, next to a smelly, flyblown donkey was making her feel a special sort of vulnerable, deep in the pit of her stomach. Resolving to remain uncowed, Tracer piped up again. “I knew the rumors about Talon were true!” she said, alternately eyeing the donkey and Widowmaker’s nude, hourglass figure. “You’re just a bunch of degenerates!”

Sombra listened impassively and began to walk around the captive woman in a circle. Almost naked with silver hexagonal nodes glistening at regular points down her back, she was a sight to behold, looking voluptuous and powerful but also somehow twisted with her dark eye-makeup somehow suggesting a strung-out woman on the tail end of too many all-night coding sessions, a woman who had been to the darkest corners of the internet and become twisted as a result, unable to feel pleasure except in ways strange and unspeakable. After completing a full circle, she stopped next to Lena’s bent-over frame.

“It only takes a shock to the system to create a totally different person.,” she said. The words rolled off her tongue, her accent making them seem exotic and threatening. “So that’s what we’re going to do to you. I should know,  _chica_. I erased myself, and recreated myself.”

“And I’m really going to enjoy changing you,” Widowmaker stated, leaning in, taking a handful of Tracer’s spikey, peppy hair. “You might be the first to raise my body temperature in a  _long_ time.”

*SMACK!*

Tracer yelped as Sombra bounced an open palm off of her exposed butt, sending her pert cheeks a-jiggling. Now, the bound brit’s expression was growing into one of almost comical apprehension, and Sombra’s presence and probing fingers near her undercarriage made her wonder what further indignities were in store. After a glance back and forth between the donkey, the tank of goo, and the two lewdly unclothed, sadistic women, she seemed to realize what sort of twisted ‘interrogation’ was in store.

“W-wait,” Tracer burst out, eyes wide. “Maybe I  _can_  tell you something! Let’s just talk about it, now, what do you say?” Her wrists struggled at the manacles.

“Getting nervous?” Sombra quipped. “I figure you’d be used to this sort of thing, with all the rug-munching you’ve been doing!” Via her remote control instructions, the quadrupedal platform that had situated itself next to the three of them further extended its clear plastic hose, which was the width of a wrist. The end came complete with a leathery wrap-around fastener and dental brace, like something out of a bondage film.

Tracer eyed the strange hose-fastener with alarm. Sombra pulled one upward and showed it more closely. “When this goes in your mouth, you’ll find yourself unable to bite down or resist swallowing,” she explained, her dark eye makeup suggesting that this manner of technological witchcraft was something she’d been more than happy to devise. “Since you’ve been so uncooperative, we will have no choice but to begin your first feeding.”

_Feeding. Did she say ‘feeding’?_

Tracer looked from the hose, to the Sombra’s face, to the barrel-like tank of thick, coruscating yellow-white sludge. She could never endanger her friends and make them fodder for Widowmaker’s rifle by giving out information about their expected whereabouts, but the alternative- 

“I’m not a patient woman, chica,” Sombra added. “So don’t think you can stall your way out of this.”

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Widowmaker added, her face seductive, her voice was a an ingenue’s whisper. “And I bet that  _petite femme rouge_  of yours will enjoy seeing it too.” The purple-skinned assassin reached forward to grab Tracer’s head with inelegant brutishness, holding it in place while Sombra pressed the plastic hose and mouthpiece against her lips. Try as she might, Lena couldn’t press her lips together hard enough to resist the tapered head, and it was quickly forced deep in an act of lewd penetration, causing her eyes to water, causing her to choke and gulp. A buckled strap was slipped around her head to hold the apparatus in place, with the thickness of the tube and a frame keeping her jaw wrenched open. When it was done, Tracer looked up at Sombra with an expression of hatred and defiance, the tears welling in her eyes proving her distress.

Sombra licked her lips and chuckled at Tracer’s pathetic-looking face, holding the thick plastic tube in one hand. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out that this tank is filled with semen.” When Tracer’s eyes somehow widened even more, Sombra made fierce eye contact and went on. “That’s right,  _putana_. Jizz. Jungle juice! Thick, smelly, backed-up  _burro_  come!” In her latina accent, the word sounded like  _caum_. She took the plastic hose connected to Tracer’s mouth and attached it to tank’s base, cinching it tight with a clockwise screwing motion. When that was done, she produced a small control unit and held it aloft.

“We made sure to find the filthiest, most flea-bitten  _burros_  in Mexico,” Sombra added, patting the glass vessel. “Two dozen omnic whores worked day and night draining their balls to gather all of this, just for you. You should be thankful. See how thick and lumpy? A normal woman would be disgusted, but since you’re such a cum-drinking  _putana_ , you shouldn’t have a problem.”

Widowmaker leaned in and pressed her lips to Tracer’s ear. “We made sure to pick the donkeys with the heaviest nut sacks,” she taunted. “So this tank contains dozens of liters of smelly, rotten donkey cum, all for you!”

Tracer squawked into her feeding tube and rustled her naked body in her bonds, pulling against them stronger than she had before, still unable to make any headway. She shook her head in a gesture of negation, as if saying  _no, no, no, anything but that_. “This tank has kept this stuff at body temperature for weeks. Ready to serve!” Sombra went on. “I can open the valve a little and feed you a steady drip, or a lot to feed you a stream.” She brandished the control unit, which was lit with purple LEDs that matched her hair, her face distorting into a sick smile. “I could even open it up all the way.”

Tracer shook her head and squawked hoarsely again. Her eyes were fixed on the tank, where yellowish, white liquid was coruscating suggestively. Widowmaker’s voice was still in her ear. “Bon appétit, ma chérie.”

Sombra thumbed the control device and the connected cum-tank began to vibrate with an industrial thrum. A river of nasty sperm started to flow through the tube, approaching Tracer’s mouth suspensefully in a grotesque, jaundiced lava flow. Widowmaker’s eyes were avid, taking in every detail, a sadistic villain enjoying the machinations of her humiliating revenge. Seemingly unable to contain her arousal, she perched herself on one of the tank frames, spread her legs, and began to masturbate, thighs spread, fingers rubbing the engorged mound of her pussy. She was soaking wet.

Tracer gurgled helplessly with forlorn violation as the lumpy river of donkey cum began to pour into her forced-open mouth. As it pooled on her tongue, she dry-heaved at the foul taste and porridge-like texture, alternately watery and disgustingly thick with occasional stringy chunks. It was unspeakably warm, as if freshly squeezed from the source, and yet it also carried an overpowering flavor, as if left to ferment. The violation was too much, and Tracer felt her mind slipping as she issued a desperate gurgle, her large, expressive eyes rolling back lewdly. She was no longer Lena Oxton, peppy defender of good and justice, but dumpster for donkey cum. Her mouth was almost full, her cheeks beginning to puff out. The thought of swallowing so much disgusting cum...

“Swallow for me,  _chica_ ,” Sombra purred, running the back of her hand down Tracer’s cheek and gesturing to the donkey that was still standing nearby. “You don’t want to offend poor Pedro! He was the biggest donor for this delicious meal! Probably because his sweaty, gross donkey balls are so big and swollen! Look at all the flies buzzing around them! He’s a bit long in the tooth, so there are probably a lot of disfigured and dead sperm in there, but a dyke like you should still be happy to suck down so much yummy genetic garbage!” She ran her hands along Tracer’s rump, feeling every bit of the bouncy, bubbly flesh there, groping it, doing what millions of males the world over had dreamed of doing to her tight little ass. “A skinny bitch body like  _this_  is a perfect cum dump!” If Pedro objected to Sombra’s reference to his age and the quality of his semen, he made no motion, only standing still, snorting, and flicking his long ears.

Tracer let out one last squeal, tugging at her bonds with each narrow, shapely limb, but there was no respite from the cum pouring steadily from the tank. Her cheeks ballooned out to jazz trumpeter proportions as she tried to avoid swallowing, but the pressure became too great. Her throat bulged out obscenely and her exaggerated gulping noise was audible above everything as she consumed the entire mouthful of donkey sperm, moaning pathetically afterward with half-lidded, exhausted eyes. She would never again be able to look at a picture of her body without also seeing, superimposed, a Tracer-shaped toilet with a donkey’s dick being jacked off into it. Her famously graceful figure, her accomplishments and personality, all secondary to the new, indisputable truth that she was cum-chugging piece of trash.

The depravities of Sombra and Widowmaker were so filthy that Tracer was already past surprise when a six-foot horizontal bar began to lower from the ceiling, hanging from the same metal cables as her manacles and positioning itself just above her prone back. Tracer whirled her head, trying to understand the meaning of this new apparatus, and Sombra laughed.

“Your new donkey friend needs a place to put his forelegs, if he’s going to fuck you!” she crowed, running a finger along Tracer’s spine as she walked in a semi-circle to goad the beast into position. Tracer squawked, shaking her head, making the feeding tube jostle in the air. Sombra only responded by flicking her control device and tripling the flow of semen in the tube, requiring Tracer to swallow a mouthful of the nasty jizz every five seconds instead of every fifteen. Catching a glimpse of the donkey as it neared her buttocks, Tracer screeched into her mask; it was old, smelly, with huge droopy balls and a long, fat, stinky cock that was dripping with piss and buzzing with flies. The metal cables twanged and jangled as it threw its forelegs up, and she felt the beast’s cockhead brush against her inner thighs.

Regardless of the language, the phrase “donkey rape” changes little in meaning. In Spanish, it’s  _violación de burro,_ and in French,  _viol à l'âne._ By any tongue, it involves brutal penetration by an unwashed, stinky donkey dick, and that was what happened to Lena Oxton, Codename: Tracer, under the sadistic watch of her voluptuous, masturbating Talon captors. While she struggled to swallow the constant flow of thick cum being pumped into her mouth, the donkey impassively leaned on the mating bar and began to thrust its powerful frame with clumsy instinct. Her efforts to swing her hips and cringe away from the horny animal only caused her tight bubble butt to jiggle, enticing it all the more. Its pisshole was already spurting syrupy pre-cum as it rutted, first plowing the furrow of her small cunt-flaps before withdrawing and finding her entrance despite Tracer’s desperate efforts to the contrary. It thrust forward, hooves planted, bring all its 1,000 pounds of braying, pack-toting power to bear. Tracer gurgled pathetically into her cum-tube and her eyes rolled back with semi-catatonia as her unbelievably tight pussy was ripped apart by sixteen arm-thick inches of flanged, reeking beast cock. 

The air was filled with the meaty sound of what had once been a cute, pretty British pussy, hard-pressed to accommodate two fingers, being stretched and ruined, rendered a donkey-fucking whore hole. The slick, slimy sound of flesh diverging and expanding to accept an invading member mixed unspeakably with the flopping slap of the donkey’s sweaty, leathery balls as they swung back and forth like gourds in a grocery bag. Lena gurgled a pathetic moan into her bubbling, roiling cum-pipe as her vaginal passage was became little more than a lube-soaked donkey sleeve. The beast crashed through her cervix and swiftly began spurting polluted seed into her petite womb, which stretched unwillingly around the invading brutal cock flange as it was driven upward into her body, causing a dick-shaped bulge to appear in her flat, taut, athletic midsection.

As the violation escalated, Sombra and Widowmaker perched on high metal chairs near Tracer’s face, legs spread, fingering their pussies and verbally degrading their captive while alternating in crying out and spraying wet, squirting orgasms into her face. Their fat, dusky pussy lips moved from side to side under practiced fingers as they rubbed their clits, alternating between thick jets of squirt and sprinkler-like explosions that collectively plastered Tracer’s trademark spiky hair to her head and bathed her in a dripping sheen. 

It was in the midst of one mighty climax that Sombra cried “Eat cum,  _putana_!” and thumbed the cum-tank controls, directing the flow to reach full power. The watery dick-farting sound of Pedro filling Tracer’s womb with a huge load of donkey jizz was overridden by a pneumatic sound as liter after liter of foul sperm rocketed down the pipe and was propelled straight down Tracer’s throat. It was a huge amount of lumpy, fermented nut, raping straight down her throat like a column, and it took only a few seconds for the seizure-wracked, mind-broken recipient to inflate to a grotesque size, as if heavily pregnant and ready to drop the child any moment. Squeezed by the amount of fluid entering her body, Tracer’s bladder let go, spraying a stream of yellow piss humiliatingly downward like a hanged criminal in her last evacuating throes. Her brain was being rewired on the fly, subjected to humiliations beyond what she could bear, unspeakable sensations of being filled with the foulest, smelliest cum imaginable and splattered with squirt from the pussies of two hated enemies.

“Now, the  _coup de grace_!” Widowmaker hissed, still schlicking as she sneered at Tracer’s mind-fucked state. “You have nothing to go back to, silly girl. Your life is an illusion, to be cast off and replaced!”

A viewscreen began to project from the ceiling, the edges glowing purple, displaying surveillance footage of Tracer’s red-haired girlfriend, whom she treasured above all else and with whom she’d spent many an evening watching romantic comedies and muff-diving in her London flat. But it seemed that Tracer’s absence, her ‘partner’ had found other hobbies. She was on all fours, being fucked powerfully from behind by a gorilla. And considering the shortage of gorillas in Tracer’s immediate sphere of association, only one came to mind. Winston, her longtime friend, a hyper- intelligent ape, and, it seemed, romantic replacement.

“Yes! Pound my cunt with your fat, nasty gorilla dick!” the redhead moaned, leaning back over her shoulder to suck on Winston’s tongue while the powerful primate gripped her hips and plumbed her depths. “This is so much better than being with Lena!” 

“I hope she never comes back!” Winston growled, before hilting himself and pumping his partner full of what seemed to be a massive load of steamy gorilla cum. The footage was a complete fabrication, of course, but an expert one, directed personally by Sombra, a veteran of tens of thousands of information warfare actions.

Tracer gurgled and howled like a wounded animal into her feeding tube, her eyes blazing for a moment… and then went limp, her eyes rolling up and going half lidded, her limbs slack, her stretched out, inflated belly sloshing below her nastily, a donkey still fucking away at the wrecked jizz sack of her pussy and womb. She seemed totally catatonic, nothing more than a defeated, mindless fuck-sleeve. 

Sombra nodded with approval. “It’s done,” she said. “We can train her in whichever way we like.”

“I’ll make it ten times worse than what was done to me, before I killed Gerard,” Widowmaker hissed. “She deserves to suffer.” She paused, then raised an eyebrow at Sombra. “Why don’t install her in the bathroom?” She gestured to the east wall, a grungy chamber in the out-of-the-way torture facility, containing a squat toilet and few other amenities. 

“Good idea!” Sombra agreed, sliding down from her chair and looking down and back over her shoulder as if to view her own thick, bubbly chicana ass. “I really have to go. Like,  _bad_.”

Widowmaker also slid down to stand next to Tracer, grabbing her defeated arch-nemesis by the hair and glaring into soaked, catatonic face. “You’re too full of cum to do much good now,” Amelie threatened, “but soon I’m going to make you deepthroat a huge, backed-up log of my shit!” She slapped her own ass, then lifted and dropped one buttock, as if the size of her derriere would somehow presage the enormity of the soon-to-be-arriving dump.

Tracer only shuddered and nodded brainlessly. Satisfied, Sombra and Widowmaker walked away, leaving the cum to drain into her body as she was raped for hours by the donkey. “Lena Oxton” was dead, and a new Talon operative would soon be born. 


End file.
